


Classi9 Ficlets

by Kashimalin



Category: Classi9 (Manga)
Genre: Classical Music, Friendship, Music, Piano, School, also will anyone actually search for chopin like that, how do you start a fandom on AO3, let me write my fanfiction for it, this is for a fandom that is too small
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2018-10-29 14:04:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10855515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kashimalin/pseuds/Kashimalin
Summary: A few small ficlets detailing the adventures of Class S- while they go through life at Melite! Stories are based on the life of the actual composers, some prompts, and a couple original ideas!





	1. The Restaurant Incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a story from Haydn's section in _The Book of Musical Anecdotes._

“I don’t know why you’re dragging me on an outing the night before our compositions are due…” Bach attempted to pull out of Haydn’s grip once again, but failed as he was relentlessly dragged along further down the city street. 

“Because you already  _ finished,  _ right? You just are paranoid and want to check it over one last time before turning it in. You can do that later!” Haydn cast a smile back his way, before turning around and looking inside all the late-night cafés and restaurants that lined the street.

“We could just relax at the dorms, I don’t see what the point of-”

Suddenly, he heard Haydn shush him, and was about to protest when his friend pointed towards a restaurant terrace. Alongside patrons of the establishment, there was a group of musicians, clearly half-drunk and dozing off from their night of work and wine. They were working through what sounded like a minuet, but Bach wasn’t sure - they were playing it so out of time and pitch that it was almost a miracle they were holding their bows the right way.

“I recognize that piece,” Haydn said, a small smirk growing on his face. Bach knew what that devious look meant, but could not stop his friend before he ran towards the musicians, peeking over their shoulders at the music. When he reached the leader, he casually pulled over a chair from an empty table and settled down next to him, ignoring Bach’s hand signals that were telling him to move away. When they ended the piece - on a diminished chord, making Haydn wince at the very sound of it - he pointed at the sheet music and asked, “Sir, would you mind telling me whose minuet this is? I go to the conservatory, you know, and I had to stop and see…”

“It’s Haydn’s,” the man snapped back. At the response, Haydn looked up at Bach with a glint in his eye, only to receive a sigh of defeat in return. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think about how he was going to later explain this if they got back past curfew-

“Haydn’s!” 

Bach recognized his friend’s voice and his eyes flew open, looking up to see why he was yelling his own name. What met his gaze was Haydn standing before the chamber group, anger plainly written across his face.

“Well, that’s a stinking minuet, if it’s by  _ that _ guy!”

“Says who?” The leader jumped from his seat in a drunken rage, glaring Haydn down as he towered over his meek height. 

“I do!” he sneered back, not withering under the gaze. Bach realized the escalation as the other musicians began to stand rally around the fiddler, yelling insults. 

“You’re just a student, what do you know?” 

“If you can’t appreciate our music, get out! You don’t belong at that school, then!” 

“What gives you the right to be like that?”

Haydn only laughed. “I just think he’s a sod of a musician! I’ve analyzed his mediocre stuff-” 

He was cut off as he felt an arm wrap around his waist, pulling him out of the way of a swinging fiddle. Within seconds, Bach had lifted Haydn under his arm, wrapped around him as he moved out of a bow’s path next.

“I cannot  _ believe _ you,” Bach muttered, fending off the musicians and patrons as he dashed away from the restaurant and back up the street, not releasing his friend until he was sure they were out of the range of fire. “You had to go and rile them up, of course…”

“But it’s fun!” Haydn declared as Bach placed him back down, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “I don’t mind it, but usually they don’t get that mad… it’s funny to watch them react, though. If they knew I was the composer, they would find it amusing, too.” 

“And when exactly were you going to tell them that? After you got a violin lodged in your brain?” 

Haydn waved it off, beginning to walk back to school with a spring in his step. “I could have handled it! Besides, they weren’t that mad…” 

Bach stared after him, before shaking his head and moving to catch up with him, making sure that they both got back to school without a single detour for the rest of the night.

  
  



	2. The Dissonant Chord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a story from Bach's section in _The Book of Musical Anecdotes._

“Hold _still_ , Ren!”

“I can do it myself, Mozart!”

“As evidenced by that _mess_ you called a knot earlier, you most certainly cannot! Let me do it!”

Ren blew a heavy sigh, giving up the fight. She stopped fidgeting, allowing Mozart to finish tying her tie. The day uniform she wore had a bowtie, which she was accomplished at putting on – but somehow, the tie had alluded her, remaining a mystery.

“Thank you for letting me,” Mozart said softly. “There, that should be good.”   

“Are you two almost ready?” Bach knocked on the door, calling out to the two still inside. Mozart, seemingly satisfied with his work, nodded.

“How do you feel now, Ren? Ready to go?”

“Yes!” She gave a confident smile as she gathered up her music, following Mozart out into the hallway. Outside, the rest of Class S- was patiently waiting to leave for the night’s evening gala. At the sight of Mozart and Ren, people moved to lift instruments onto their backs or gather up their sheet music. Chatter ensued just moments later, excitement spreading throughout the group.

“Do you want help with that, Bach?” Ren walked alongside the tallest of the group, leaning back to check out the large case on his back. He shook his head.

“It’s just a cello. I’ll be fine.” Smiling at her for a moment, his attention was stolen by Haydn just a moment later.

“What do you need your cello for, Bach? I thought you were going to play piano tonight!”

“I am,” he said simply. He opened his mouth to continue speaking, but was interrupted by Liszt a few steps ahead, a cello of his own on his back.

“If you’re curious, Haydn…!” Liszt gave a bright smile, spinning about. “We’re hoping to perform Boccherini’s two-cello sonata at the party. It will be a chance for the two of us to practice our playing, since piano’s such a common thing at these events…”

“B-But piano’s your strongest suit, Liszt…” Chopin gave a small smile, turning his friend around before he tripped walking backward. Liszt only nodded in agreement.

“That doesn’t mean I refuse to play anything else. I think it’s important that we expand ourselves to other instruments and our horizons, too!”

Ren smiled and backed out of their conversation on the subject of musical education, retreating towards the rear of the group. Beethoven’s soft voice was audible, happily talking with Wagner and asking him questions.

“Who are you hoping to see at the party, Wagner?”

“…Nobody in particular,” he replied in a low, gruff tone. “Just that there are opera singers in attendance.”

“I do, too. I like seeing your face when you watch them. They always look so passionate, and you get so excited.”

Ren bit back a laugh. She tried not to imagine the expression on Wagner’s face due to Beethoven’s comment. Tchaikovsky caught her poorly-hidden smile, falling into step alongside her.  

“What about you, Ren? Are you planning to play tonight?”

“Huh?” Her face blanked. She instinctively clutched her music closer to her chest. “Well, I… I was planning on playing something, but only if all of you get tired…” She looked at each person in their group as she spoke. Despite her statement, it was clear that everyone was full of energy and in good spirits. She realized that a chance at playing that night, if she waited, would be near-impossible.

“What an interesting thing to say.” Tchaiko gave a low smile. “This is more than a simple gathering of musicians, you know. It’s also a party for networking and showcasing. World premieres and the like happen at these things. If people don’t hear your music, then they will never know just how talented you are, Ren.”

“He’s right!” Haydn’s boisterous voice cut into the conversation. “People didn’t take me seriously when I first showed up! I had to shut them up with my piano playing!”

“Truth be told, it was more the fact that you shut them up by shoving the player off the bench…” Bach’s tired sigh soon followed as Haydn aimed a frustrated stare his way.

“It was only because he said I was too young to sit at the bench! I couldn’t let him get away with that, could I?”

Ren and Tchaiko laughed as Bach attempted to coax Haydn into a relaxed state before they arrived.

As they went through the wrought-iron gates, Ren was captivated by the size of the manor. Colossal oak doors barred the entrance and led way into a grand foyer. Ornate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, illuminating gilded halls and tile floors. A solitary piano could be heard through open doors, through them a grand ballroom. Having no idea where to go, she wordlessly followed the others, soaking in all the sights of the place.

“Excuse me?” Mozart tapped someone on the shoulder as they entered, scanning the room quickly. “Could you kindly tell us where the host and hostess are?”

The person glanced down at Mozart’s uniform, smiling eagerly. “Of course. Just over there.” He pointed to another set of doors, glass paneling revealing a smaller salon.

“Thank you.” As he continued walking, Ren took note of the hushed whispers around the room. Their uniforms, she assumed, must be well-known to all those in attendance. They clearly showcased the school crest and their social standing.

  _Melite students are famous musicians, after all,_ Ren mused to herself. _I guess it’s no surprise that we’re supposed to appear at things like this and show off the school—_

Her thoughts were disrupted as the group entered the room indicated, intending to greet the hosts inside. However, this time, everyone fell into a silent hush. The piano continued for a few moments, before slowing down. The pianist currently seated glanced up from his music. At the sight of their uniforms, he stood abruptly from the piano. As he did so, his fingers fell onto the keys –

And sounded a horrifically dissonant chord. The jarring notes caused many in the ballroom to cringe, including all the Melite students. As they recovered, only Mozart noticed Bach handing his cello to him. Taking it quickly, he watched as Bach walked past the hosts without a word. His aim was towards the piano, where the pianist in question quickly excused himself and stepped aside.

“Oh no, Bach!” Ren and Haydn cried out, beginning to move forward. However, a hand fell onto each of their shoulders, and the two spun around to see Tchaikovsky. An amused smile rested on his lips.

“There’s no need to be worried,” he said as they sputtered at him. “Just watch.” He nodded towards the rest of the class. Ren and Haydn followed his gaze, and noticed what he meant. Chopin and Liszt seemed to be getting more excited, and Mozart was sighing, but it was clear he was watching Bach with rapt attention. The two looked back towards the piano, where Bach was seating himself before the keys.

“You know,” he said lightly, not making eye contact with the amateur pianist, “one should never leave a dissonant chord unresolved.” With that, his fingers fell onto the keys in a rush. He played the harsh set of notes again for only a moment, before launching into a melody. With no music before him, the music was clearly improvised on the spot; but Bach trapped everyone in the room under his melody within moments. From the shaky beginning, he built a clear foundation, laying the groundwork for a piece that only grew in shape, color, and expression. There were classical undertones to the work, practically a concerto as the song spiraled onward towards a climax. It arched over the room, clear and beautiful. All eyes watched him as he began to descend, the piece settling down towards the ground all too soon. Playing the refrain once again, he concluded the piece on a simple cadence, and eased back from the keys. Applause broke out seconds after, the members present smiling with joy. The pianist clapped the loudest and apologized once more, calling his playing “masterful”.

But in the back of his mind, Bach knew it was anything but, especially compared to what his classmates could pull off. Standing from the bench, idle chatter filled the silent room left behind by him. He walked back over to the host and hostess, giving a polite nod and bow.

“That was exquisite; surely, it’s just a taste of what is to come?” The hostess warmly smiled at Bach, extending her hand. Bach gave it a gentle shake.

“Those of us who represent Melite aim to please with our performances,” he said simply. “Thank you for having us, my apologies for disrupting the party.”

“It was anything but,” she corrected. With that, Bach released her hand and took his cello back from Mozart, asking Liszt if he was ready to play.

“Well, of course!” he replied, before tilting his head to one side. “But, Bach… why did you do that? You could have just left it the way it was. He was just surprised to see us.”

Bach stared at his friend for a moment. “I could not leave a dissonant chord hanging in the air like that," he answered slowly. "It would have been improper of me, as a musician.”

“Always the stickler for a proper beginning and a proper end, aren’t you, Bach?” Mozart sighed as he watched his friend open his case. “Just the way you are.”

 “The way I like it.” Bach smiled at Mozart, who let out a dry laugh.

“Whatever you say. Go enchant them again with your cello playing. There should be music every minute here! Be heard and show off what Melite is capable of!”

Bach and Liszt obliged. For the rest of the night, merry music and harmony were made, not once stopping until the stars hung high in the sky.


	3. A Well-Deserved Applause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the story of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

When a student of Melite gets the opportunity to premiere a new composition in one of the concert venues in town, there is a sense of academic pride that comes with it. They are given express permission to miss classes and assignments in favor of scheduled rehearsals with their orchestra of choice, and often receive benefits such as complimentary tickets or tours of the halls they will be performing in.

Beethoven gets one such chance in the spring. His newest symphony was recently completed and submit some of the top orchestras at the insistence of professors and peers alike. What he didn’t expect was to receive word back, saying that they wanted him to conduct his symphony. The news had caused him to nearly faint, and his mood could only be placated by promises of celebration, with pudding and sweets in abundance. After going through the motions of receiving aid and leave from the institution, Beethoven got immediately to work.

Long weeks leading up to the premiere were spent staying up in his room, drafting up what he wanted to say to the orchestra. He had chosen Liszt and Chopin to attend as his translators, telling him what the orchestra was saying and listening to the music with scores in hand, making commentary when necessary. Only after many hours and intensive work did he feel comfortable declaring it truly “complete,” leading to finalizing the concert date and preparing for that time.

And Beethoven had to admit, the evening came far sooner than expected. While he was backstage, trying to ease his racing heart, his friends were out in the auditorium, finding their seats. Bach, towering over everyone else, attempted to arrange them into the least-disruptive order possible.

“Make sure you all settle into your seats, properly, no sharing. Tchaiko, you’re not sitting next to Wagner. Haydn, get between them, and leave another seat open for me! Liszt, Chopin, you two next.” As he choraled his classmates into a functional group, Ren and Mozart stayed back, letting him climb over legs to reach his seat first.

“Do you want to sit next to Liszt, or on the outside?” Mozart asked Ren.

“I don’t mind the outside, so after you!” She gestured for him to take his seat, sitting down next to him and looking up at the stage. She could just make out the few musicians already present, instruments in hand. They were going through tricky parts or conversing with their peers, clearly excited. Beside her, Mozart receives a program, and he opened it curiously, reading the contents.

“Says here this is his ninth symphony.” He could not help a smile. “I’m always impressed with how Beethoven writes.”

“This one is his _ninth_?” Ren could hardly fathom writing that many symphonies in her lifetime. Beethoven is not even out of school – but, he has composed far more than she will ever get a chance to imagine. “I wonder how he gets all his ideas.”

“I suppose it comes from somewhere. Perhaps there is something that inspires him to keep creating and never stop. I just know that I’m curious to hear how this one turned out, since I haven’t heard it yet.”

“Do you usually get a chance to hear it beforehand?”

“Well, he asked me to be on his ‘team’ for his seventh and eighth symphonies. I always knew what the score looked like and such… but this time, he asked Liszt and Chopin, and didn’t ask me!”

“I think he liked our opinions more in this case,” Liszt said, interjecting into their conversation. “Perhaps we were more able to accurately display his vision for this work.”

“I sincerely hope you were,” Mozart snapped back.

“No matter what, I’m sure it will be wonderful!” Ren’s hopeful smile disrupted their flow, brightening the mood. “Whenever he plays in class, it sounds so melancholy and beautiful. I can’t wait to hear what it sounds like with a full, professional symphony!”

“Have you never had your work performed like this before, Ren?” Liszt tilted his head to one side.

“No. Only the school orchestra. And that was still really impressive!”

“Then, prepare to be amazed!” Liszt could not help beaming at her, but was distracted when Mozart nodded towards the stage.

“Look, the final musicians are coming on.”

Sure enough, the house lights dim as the remaining instrumentalists eased themselves into their seats, and the choir members take their positions on stage, standing until given the cue otherwise. Polite applause rippled through the crowd as the conductor himself walked onto the stage. Beethoven smiled out at the audience, quickly acknowledging them with a nod before reaching the podium. He spread his score out carefully and cautiously, checking his page tabs one last time. The room held its collective breath as he finally lifted his arms, urging the orchestra into a playing position.

Then, with a subtle movement of his baton, the symphony began. Barely a few moments passed before the piece begins to pick up in speed and richness, leading up to a grand crescendo and dramatic progression.

The audience is captured. Beethoven took them on an entire journey in the time the audience has willingly given to him. Nobody in the audience dared to clap between the four movements as each one tells a different story, the pace and timbre changing each time he cued the musicians in to continue. Sweeping passages shifted and grew as Beethoven led the orchestra and choir, confident and posed. What he conveyed with his body was what came out of the musicians. The spell cast over the audience never faded or broke, no matter what music is thrown their way. Through sections where every instrument was playing at their brightest and proudest, to the more legato sections where a soloist had a moment to showcase their skill, to when a singer was able to carry themselves over the orchestra, rather than blend, the audience listened. They watched. They understood.

It doesn’t feel like time has passed, but the end of the symphony came nonetheless, ending in a rush, accelerating forward at an intense pace. Ren could feel herself inching to the edge of her seat, holding on tight to the sound and motion as it reaches the grand finale. The last note is struck, held for a moment longer. Silence hung n the air as Beethoven cut them off.

For a moment, there is quiet, hanging in the air – before the string snaps.

The room broke into roaring applause, rivaling the raw power of the symphony orchestra. It was as if their excitement had been building over the past hour, only to emerge in fervent support for the arts and music.

However, Beethoven did not turn around to see it. He remained facing towards the orchestra, most likely smiling at them in admiration, hoping quietly to himself that they followed and nothing went sour. A couple members made a strange gesture, but he dismissed it as he begins to gather up his score and baton.

As he planned to depart the stage, Ren caught what he had missed. Her clapping slowed as she stared intently at him, trying to figure out what was bothering her.

Then it strikes. Beethoven gave one small bow to the orchestra, and was about to walk off the stage without ever acknowledging the audience and their appreciation for his work.

“Ren? Where are you going?” Mozart called after her as she jumped out of her seat, already on the move. She started off running, ignoring the stares from audience members as she passed them by _,_ determined to reach Beethoven in time.

As she climbed onto the stage, Beethoven was shocked to see her. He could not work out why she was suddenly there, but did not have a chance to ask before she seized him by the shoulders, spinning him to face the audience.

In that moment, he realized what he had forgotten. He took in the sea of people, their hands coming together in furious applause. He could only imagine the sound of their praise, echoing in his ears. Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes, before flowling freely as he watched someone stand in the audience.

Mozart held his hands higher, lips moving in words he cannot read. But it's then that his classmates stand alongside him, creating a wave as others followed suit. Friends and strangers alike congratulate him, and as he turned back to gesture to the orchestra, he found them standing too, clapping and smiling.  _For him._ The tears came in full force, and he could not hold them back as Ren’s arm wrapped around his back, holding him close.

“Thank you,” he sobbed, hoping Ren could hear him. “Thank you, thank you.”

She tapped his shoulder, catching his attention. Through watery eyes, he can make out her lips, moving slowly.

“You deserve it.”

With that, he gave her a brief hug, tight, before facing the audience. He gave a sweeping bow once, twice, before taking Ren’s hand again and letting her lead him off the stage.

_I can never thank you enough, Ren._

 


	4. Beethoven's Premiere Concerto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the story from _The Book of Musical Anecdotes_.
> 
> _"At the performance of the ... concerto, he asked me [Seyfried] to turn the pages for him, but - heaven help me! - that was easier said than done. ... at the most on one page... a few Egyptian hieroglyphs wholly unintelligible me [were] scribbled down to serve as cues for him."_

Ren never thought the job of _page turning_ would be a daunting task.

However, she found herself standing in the wings, next to Beethoven, in Melite’s largest recital hall. He was preparing to perform his newest concerto for a full house.

However, in the rush to finish the work before the evening of the recital, he did not have time to memorize it. That was when he requested Ren’s assistance, deciding that she was more trustworthy than a professor.

_“I have faith in you, Ren! I know how impromptu this is, but I also know you can do it.”_

Beethoven looked at her for just a moment, smiling gently as she met his gaze. “Ready to go out?”

“Let’s go!” Ren gestured to a stagehand, who gave her a thumbs-up back. The lights dimmed, and the audience broke out in applause. Ren nudged Beethoven, who took the cue and stepped out onto the stage.

Ren hung back as Beethoven stopped besides the piano, giving a bow before settling on the piano bench. Ren eased into her chair. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. _Just follow the music. It shouldn’t be that hard, right?_

Beethoven placed his sheet music onto the stand, opening to the first page – and Ren’s face paled. Her fingers twisted into the fabric of her pants in an attempt to hold onto her composure.

_I can’t read it!_

His untidy scrawl covered the entire manuscript. Notes had been crossed out, poorly written, or pushed horribly close together to the point of being illegible. Where there were not notes, Beethoven had left large gaps; Ren knew from experience that these were parts he could hear in his ear. And despite the gaps, some of his notes fell off the ends of measures, where they met with the crowded margins. Those, too, were not spared his wandering pen – random words and pictures were everywhere. Ren could have sworn one of them was even a drawing of a cake.

She barely had time to take in the music when Beethoven launched into the work. His fingers flew across the keyboard at a rapid tempo, stunning the audience. Ren knew that her job had begun. Her eyes raked across the page, trying to figure out where he was reading through the ink blots and scratched lines. However, he danced through the music so swiftly that she could not catch up. For a moment, she wondered if she would ever find it.

Until she heard it. A small murmur.

_“Sta.”_

It’s hardly there – a ghost’s whisper. But she knew the source immediately, standing up slowly and reaching for the corner of the page. Sharp, steely eyes glanced at her.

She learned her cue in an instant.

The page was flipped, the music continued without a moment’s hesitation. With a silent sigh of relief, Ren settled back into her seat.

Through crescendos and cadenzas, Beethoven took the audience on a journey of emotions and of characters. At some points, it was not unlike the music was having a conversation with itself, talking animatedly between the melody and harmony. Other times, it was a swaying, lyrical ballad, singing of an unknown loss – but making one’s heart desire what was now missing.

And amidst it all, Ren and Beethoven settled into their rhythm, trusting each other throughout the journey. The moment did not break or stumble – it only continued without a single stutter.

Finally coming to a dramatic conclusion, Beethoven leaned forward. He played the final notes in what he hoped was a stirring finale. The last chord was held, the raw power of the piano shaking beneath his touch. Then, he breathed in – and out as he lifted his fingers from the keys.

This time, he looked out to the audience as he stood, watching their applause. He remembered what it sounded like, once, long ago – and recalled it again now as he bowed once, twice. 

Then, stepping back, he held out a hand to Ren, giving her the opportunity to bow as well before they exited the stage – and into the arms of their friends.

“You did it, Beethoven!” “You have absolutely masterful playing, my friend!” “I-It’s really something else.” Haydn, Liszt, and Chopin wasted no time praising his performance a second time as the curtains closed.

“Hang on –“ Beethoven held up his hands. “You’re all talking at the same time. I can’t hear any of you.”

The three of them fell silent in an instant, before Haydn chanced the opportunity to speak.

“Sorry, Beethoven. But you did a really great job! And to celebrate you and Ren working together and the premiere of your piece, we brought pudding!”  

Beethoven’s eyes lit up as Liszt took the box from Haydn, opening it for all to see. There was a chorus of delight as they scanned the contents, admiring the finely arranged bowls.

“Ren,” Beethoven said, looking to her, “since you were such a huge help and were able to catch on so quickly, I believe you should take the first bowl.”

“What? Me? But you’re the one who just had that amazing performance!”

“And you made it possible.”

“I don’t know how you managed to read his music, Ren,” Liszt said with a dramatic sigh. “It’s impossible to read it when we exchange our homework in class!”

“I just listened for his signal. That’s what I found myself following after a certain point.”

“And that’s why you get the first one.” Beethoven took Ren’s hand, guiding it towards the box. “So pick!”

“All right, all right! Hmm…” Carefully selecting the one she wanted, the remainder of them took up their puddings as Chopin passed out spoons.

The formalities finally over, their small talk dissolved into cheery conversation, the five of them celebrating until they had to return to their dorms for the night – where they had one last rousing cheer for Beethoven’s success before heading to bed.

And all the while, Beethoven could not keep the smile off his face.


	5. The New Student

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a story from Tchaikovsky’s section in the _Book of Musical Anecdotes._

Class S- had reason to be weary of the new student in their class. Pyotr Tchaikovsky had come in at the beginning of the semester, seemingly with a mission:

To singlehandedly best everyone in his class. 

Mozart, the person who had been first to hear of him, heard that there was a good reason Tchaikovsky had been moved to Class S- — but when the student in question annoyed everyone in it, he idly wondered if he was destined to remain in the school. 

“He said we should welcome him with open arms, but how am I supposed to do that when I don't even know what to make of him?” Mozart continuously tapped his pencil against his leg, much to Bach’s displeasure. “He’s so full of himself, thinks he’s so smart and gifted and better than his classmates.”

“All sorts of talented musicians attend this conservatory,” Bach said back, keeping his voice down. “If he’s that confident, it’s no surprise he’s here.”

“It’s that smile of his,” Mozart continues, seemingly ignoring Bach’s comment. “We haven't even seen each other’s work yet and he acts like he’ll do everything better.”

“And he might.” 

“All we’ve  _ seen _ is him challenging you to who can write the best orchestral composition in three days. You don't  _ do _ that—”

A rap at the desk from the front of the room caught both their attention, and they turned to face the teacher. Mozart and Bach fell silent, and the teacher resumed their lecture.

“In regards to variations, I am assigning all of you a homework assignment. Create a theme, and bring me at least a dozen variations upon it. Make sure you follow the rules, and that they are cleanly copied for performance and checking. This is due in three days. Write this down, as I will not be reminding you.”

Bach wrote down the homework assignment quickly, but noticed that nothing was moving in the corner of his eye. Glancing over, he saw Mozart staring forward, boring holes into the back of Tchaikovsky’s skull. 

All Bach could do was sigh, and hope that the new student wouldn't cause too much trouble in the coming days.

* * *

 

The three days passed quickly. All the students found themselves struggling to write up their variations — some due to slacking off, others because they couldn't decide on a theme to work with. 

Mozart and Bach ended up going through theirs together at a piano. Bach wrote down Mozart's interpretations and variations, but was interrupted by Haydn bursting in, begging Bach for his help, too. The hour grew late as they all worked together, but they managed to complete their work. Mozart and Haydn thanked Bach profusely as he shooed him off to bed, saying they could pay him back later. He tided up the room, gathering up his notes into a tidy pile and closing the lid of the piano. Shutting off the practice room light, he began to walk down the hallway.

_ What’s this? _ Bach squinted in the dimly lit corridor — but he could see an illuminated practice room window further down the hall. Stepping over to it, Bach peered inside. 

His jaw dropped. 

Tchaikovsky was inside, writing down a line for his variations. What surprised Bach was not the speed with which he notated his music, but rather the  _ amount _ that Tchaikovsky had. There was a stack of papers atop the piano, the visible staves filled with his handwriting. Bach stared as Tchaikovsky added the most recent sheet to the stack.

_ I wonder if he’s turning in the most complex variations tomorrow? _ Bach shrugged as he stepped back from the door. With a yawn, he started towards the dorms, not bothering to dwell on the sight he had seen in the practice room for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

“Is he turning all of those  _ i n? ”  _

Mozart stared in disgusted awe at the pile on Tchaikovsky's desk. Bach frowned at his own few pages of variations. As the other Class S- students filed into the room, everyone took note of Tchaikovsky’s work — either with an envious glare or muttered comment. However, Tchaikovsky seemed to take it all in stride, keeping a steady smile on his face. 

When the professor came into the room, he walked to the front without comment, staring down at his lecture notes for the morning. 

“Good morning, everyone — if you could pass your variations forward…” His sentence trailed off as he finally gazed up, noticing the substantial difference. 

“Tchaikovsky?”

“Yes, professor?” His smooth voice replied, unwavering and confident. 

“Are you submitting…  _ all _ of that stack for your assignment?” 

“I am.” He tilted his head to one side, his grin widening. “Is there a problem with that?” 

“... There isn’t one, but… approximately how many are there?” 

“There are just over two hundred, if I counted correctly.”

At this answer, the class went into a muted uproar, earning a slam from the front of the room. The sound ceased all chatter, and the professor returned Tchaikovsky’s smile.

“I merely expected a dozen or so variations. No more than twenty.” 

“And because you gave no upper limit, professor, I wrote two hundred.” 

“To examine all those would take me more time than it most likely took you to write them.” 

“Then only examine twenty of them.” 

The professor shuffled, letting out an embarrassed cough. “Just turn it in. And the rest of you should, too! I hope you all remembered to do it. Bach, would you mind collecting them?” 

Bach nodded, gathering his own before reaching to collect Mozart’s. As he did so, he heard Mozart’s mutter, spoken through gritted teeth. 

“He’s not going to fit in.” 

Bach sighed, merely taking the offered papers and moving on towards Haydn. Every student had a sour look, and for a moment, Bach was worried that they would banish the new student before he had a chance to fit in.

_ I suppose _ , he thought to himself as he brought the stack forward,  _ only time will tell. _


End file.
